Rebellion
by Ninja1234
Summary: "My name is Enjolras. You?" "I'm Gavroche," he said. "Gavroche Thenardier." Just how did Gavroche, the filthy, sewer-dwelling street urchin, meet Enjolras, the well-known revolution leader, and join him in his crusade? Rated T to be safe. Review!


**Hi! Here's a new story that I wrote!**

**So, I watched Les Miserables, and then I saw the little boy Gavroche, then this idea came, so I wrote!**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, the book, the musical, or the movie**

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The rats were back again.

Young Gavroche Thenardier stared at them with an expression of horrifying fascination, his rust-colored curls shaking as he scrambled deeper into the dark, filthy sewer line. His skinny little frame shivered against the bitter, harsh winds of the French winter; the chill whistled through the remains of the tattered, smudged cloth covering his small chest. His hands and feet were scratched and bleeding, red tainting his pale complexion. His child-teeth were turning a sickly yellow, and his sunken, pale eyes were wide with fear as he processed one thought:

_Rats in the sewer._

Gavroche hated rats. He hated their infuriating, annoying, incessant squeaks. He hated how they picked at his clothes, how they crawled on top of his feet in search of food. He hated their matted, coarse gray fur and small, beady eyes.

But most of all, Gavroche hated the fact that they were a spitting image of _himself_.

People made sure he knew it, too. Kids used to jeer and point when he walked by them, slumping in his neglected glory. "Look!" they would leer down at him. "It's a Thenardier!" Another would yell, "Hey, squirt? Is it true that your father actually looted something that was _of value_?" Then they'd laugh again.

The adults weren't much better. One look at his forlorn, squalid state was enough to make any maidservant slam the door in his face. Men didn't approve him as a worthy friend for their children. "Street rat," they called him. "Beggar. Urchin."

So Gavroche always stayed in the sewer: away from the city, away from the townspeople who had promptly abandoned his family once they had lost the inn, away from his rarely-ever sober father with the swinging, open beer bottle. The boy had never liked his family, and didn't want to see any of their sorry faces again. Except for Eponine.

"Eponine," he hoarsely whispered. His favorite sister. The only one that had ever cared for him. He wondered how she was. The other sister, Azelma, had been long since given off to some bloke with a French accent and gold in his pockets. Not that the Thenardiers had cared about the loss of one of their flesh and blood; they had gotten a hefty amount of francs.

But what about Eponine? Was she given away too? Or neglected and tossed away carelessly, like him? Or was she finally with that Marius bloke that she had fancied for quite a while?

But he didn't dare leave the sewer. Never ever. That is, until today.

He didn't want to leave, to risk the possibility of being caught by his father, to see a flying bottle and flying shards of glass. But yet- he couldn't be invisible forever. He knew that.

"C'mon, Gavroche," he muttered to himself, forcing himself forward. "You can't hide here forever. Not forever." His bare foot brushed over something muddy and unfamiliar. The boy shuddered, but kept going. "All right," he murmured again, trudging onward, "there's got to be someone- _anyone_-who can help me."

He felt the scramble of the sewer rodents, squealing and jumping: over his hands, his feet, the vertebrae on his spinal cord. But he continued on.

There was light at the end of the tunnel: a flickering luminescence, soaking into the rancid metal pipes that encircled the young boy. It had been days since Gavroche Thenardier had last seen the sun, and now, as he stared at the giant flame with wide, astonished, hopeful eyes, he'd never seen it this big before, so big and bright and... _encouraging_.

He made haste to crawl out-

And promptly toppled over onto a tall man.

"A- watch where you're going, kid!"

Gavroche ducked behind a nearby wooden crate, shielding his head with his bony hands. "Please don't hurt me," he whimpered meekly.

The man's gaze softened as he bent down on his knees, crouching towards the terrified boy.

_He's taking his hand out of his pocket_, Gavroche thought. _He's going to hit me. He's going to send me back to my drunkard father. He'll throw me back into the sewer. _The street urchin squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the worst.

What he felt instead was a gentle, ungloved, calloused hand on his small shoulder. "You can open your eyes now," a voice told him.

Gavroche opened his eyes.

A man's face looked back at him. He looked- _concerned_, something Gavroche had rarely ever seen directed to- to _him_, the little, worthless piece of-

"Hey." The man was still frowning, but not in anger or indignation. Not anymore. "Are you okay?"

Gavroche poked his head around the box timidly. "Y-Yeah."

The man stepped forwards. Gavroche scurried back.

"Hey. Hey, It's alright," the man said, much more softly than the first time. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Gavroche stole a peek at the tall figure. It was hard to trust him, with his pursed lips and imposing stance. "You-you're not gonna send me away? Back to the sewers?"

The man smiled, then shook his head. "That would be the last thing I'd ever do to you, young-" he paused. "Speaking of which, I didn't quite catch your name." He kneeled down and stuck out a hand. It was large and calloused. "My name is Enjolras. You?"

Gavroche looked at the outstretched hand, then at his own grubby one, smeared in dirt and worn from days of hiding in the most dire conditions. He tentatively reached out. And shook it.

For some reason, the boy smiled, giving his new found acquaintance a good view of the gap where his front teeth should have been. "I'm Gavroche," he said to the older man. "Gavroche Thenardier."

Enjolras grinned. He stood up, still holding Gavroche's arm. "Well then, Gavroche Thenardier, how would you like to join the revolution?"

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